Reverberations
by Lafayette1777
Summary: 587 crimes. 20 years. 2 brothers. 1 family. Seventeen year old Rachel Eppes takes more after her uncle than anyone else. Meanwhile, the brothers Eppes are going head to head with the brothers Martele - in what is quickly shaping up to a be a battle to the death. Twenty years after the end of the show. Title changed from "A House Divided."
1. Gwen and the Martele Brothers

**Author's Note: So, first chapter of a multi-chapter fic, set twenty years after the end of Numb3rs. Don't worry, despite this chapter, familiar characters are on the way! Please review!**

Philliberto Martele shuddered imperceptibly in the darkness.

The boys were finishing up, wiping the black soil off their hands and grabbing their discarded shovels. Phil wondered idly what they thought of this particular assignment, if they even found it repulsive anymore. Maybe they had committed so many crimes for his family by now that nothing could effect them.

But this...This was so different than anything they'd ever done.

He stepped from the shadow of the trees and into the white moonlight, beckoning to the men. They crossed the open, semi-circle shaped glade back to the sidewalk, and the two waiting cars parked next to it. The others climbed into one car, and Phil into the second, the nicer of the two vehicles.

Sterling Martele, biting on the end of cigar, told the driver to go ahead.

"All squared away?" he asked his younger brother.

"Yep," Phil affirmed. He squirmed uncomfortably for a moment, it becoming obvious that Sterling was still not giving up any information. "Um...if you don't mind me asking-"

"What?"

Phil looked at him cautiously. "I just wanna know why."

Sterling's head turned very slowly, until their eyes met. He said nothing for a long time. The brothers had the same ginger hair, the same blue eyes, though Sterling was nine years older and considerably more heavyset.

"Why do you wanna know?"

Phil's eyes flashed. "Because I think I'm entitled to! I'm not just your second in command, man. We've been in this together for twenty years. Maybe even since we were kids together. And now you've got us running around doing all this crazy shit, with no explanation whatsoever, and you expect me to just go along with it?! The cops are going to be onto us again, and we barely made it out last time!"

Instead of escalating the argument, Sterling just chuckled gently. "Don't worry, brother. This is just the beginning. I'll tell you everything when the time is right," he squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

Phil did not relax at the touch, but he said no more.

m m m

Later, Gwen thought about how if she had just decided to look down at her iPod a second earlier, she wouldn't have seen anything. Would have just run right past the little half circle clearing, like always, and never seen a thing. And everything would have been so much simpler.

But that's not what happened.

It was the same morning jog she'd been taking for three years. She could have run the route with her eyes closed, and still have caught all the crosswalks and all the neighborly waves.

The clearing was in a rare undeveloped area of Los Angeles, just a two acre strip of road with a few tree clusterings. This time of year the grass had turned yellow, the trees mostly bare. She was dressed for the late November weather, in two jackets and a pair of gloves, earbuds crammed in her ears. She looked down to change the song, half a second, and then glanced back up. She saw it then, and certainly couldn't unsee it now.

Just a little mound of dirt in the clearing to her right, barely visible above the long grass. She knew that that had definitely not been there before. Even then, she could have just dismissed it as the work of an animal, but something made her stop. It had her stepping off the sidewalk, onto the lumpy ground, and approaching the little pile of dark brown soil. She trudged toward it, and it took her a moment to realize what it made her think of.

A grave.

A rectangle of disturbed earth, approximately three feet in length, one foot in width. No full grown human would fit in a hole that size, and no natural process make the ground look like that. She sucked in a cold breath.

Turning her head, she caught sight of an identical patch of ground, and then two more diagonal to her, and three more to her left. Her heart began to pound, her panic had her frozen in place.

What the _hell _was this?

She finally pulled her phone from her back pocket, and called 911.


	2. Rachel

**Author's Note: Alright, so this is mostly an introduction chapter, with a touch of one of the future conflicts. Bare with me, more explanation coming up. Please review!**

As children, our parents are our idols. They represent everything we aspire to become. They are mentors, heroes, perfect human beings, and the smartest people we know. Most of us grow out of this stage—realize that our parents are not perfect human beings, but real human beings.

I was the anomaly, at least in one aspect of the above generalization. Though I had long forgotten the idea that my parents were perfect (I spent about eighty-five percent of my time pissed at them because of that fact), my dad was still the smartest person I knew, and the smartest person I had ever met.

This was the infuriating truth.

I knew it was a Monday when I woke up, because there's that Monday dimness to everything. A layer of funk that cannot be shaken. It was dark outside my bedroom window, a byproduct of waking up at six in late November. I set the alarm to snooze and closed my eyes again, despite the movement downstairs.

When I could finally no longer avoid the coming of the day, I pulled myself from the warmth of the blankets, stumbled to the bathroom.

I thought momentarily about going downstairs for breakfast, before getting ready. Though the thought of someone making food for me was tempting, my parents were always entirely too cheerful in the morning, and I simply could not deal with that. Especially on a Monday. On a good day, our morning conversations went something like this:

Mom: _Good morning, sweetie!_

Me: _Shut your face._

So I defected to the bathroom after pulling on jeans and a casual blouse. I began the daily process of applying subtle but enhancing make-up, and then trying to wrangle my curls into something resembling hair, utilizing hair spray and a wide toothed comb. I have my parent's hair, shiny, black ringlets that I keep cut along my chin. My skin is and Indian-Jewish olive color, too, another genetic gift.

The sun was just starting to rise over the horizon when I headed down the stairs. The first thing I saw upon emerging into the front room was my dad in full blown crazy mathematician-mode, noise canceling headphones blaring music I couldn't hear, his strange pencil grip not deterring him from writing feverishly on a pad of paper.

I ignored him and and lumbered to the kitchen.

Mom was sitting at the dining table, finishing up the last of a scrambled egg. She wore a sweater and black pants, her dark hair neatly combed.

"Morning," she smiled.

"What's he doing now?"

She didn't pick up on my withering tone, and kept smiling. "Charlie? I think he's grading, or at least he started grading."

"Significant train of thought?"

She shrugged. "You ready for school?"

"Yeah," I grabbed for the keys.

"Wow, wait a second, you're going to drive?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Didn't dad lose his license again?"

"Yes, but you still can't drive without someone over eighteen in the car."

I sighed in exasperation. "God, mom, it's just to school. I'll be fine."

"We live in Los Angeles. Statistically, the likelihood of an accident, or getting pulled over-"

I groaned. "Don't talk about statistics."

"Look, just let me take you."

"You know I drive fine! What's the big deal with this? I'll go today, and prove to you that there is no problem."

She shook her head and looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "Good logic."

We stared down each other for a few moments.

Finally, I grabbed my bag, turned on my heel and speed-walked toward the door. She seemed to have caved, and I heard her yell, "You're welcome!" before I slammed the door.

m m m

At my locker, having arrived at school without incidence, I tried to recall my class schedule. Seconds later, Vera Cataldo's shoulder collided with the locker next to mine.

"Hey, bitch," she smiled, showing her crooked teeth. She had stringy bleached blonde hair, and a tiny build, though she ate more food than a teenage boy. I had yet to see an item of clothing that didn't look too big for her, and though I'm barely five foot four, I towered over her.

"And a lovely morning to you, also."

"Fight with your mom?"

"How can you tell?"

"I guessed. Also I can assume that four days of the week it's common occurrence."

Kenneth Eppes, the sophomore, waved to me as he walked to his first class. I smiled and waved back. He was the spitting image of his father, all pale skin and black hair.

"That's your cousin, ain't it?"

"Yep," Vera waved also before he was lost in the crush of bodies.

"Have you seen Jayne yet?"

"Nah, but she has, like, perfect attendance, so she'll be here."

"Naturally."


	3. Charlie and Amita

**Author's Note: Wow, thanks for all the reviews! I did not expect such a response. Thank you so much!**

Charlie pulled off his headphones after the house had stopped vibrating.

Amita rolled her eyes at him as he timidly poked his head into the dining room. "Don't say a fucking word, Charlie."

He smiled in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. "You're mad, huh? I thought the Rachel and the supersonic door slamming was a bad sign."

"Teenagers suck."

"It's only a few more years. And then a few more after that while we wait in agony to find out if we massively screwed up."

"My husband, _so_ comforting."

"I've gotta get to class," he said. "We're still on for lunch, yeah?"

"Yeah." He kissed her on the cheek, before grabbing his coat, backpack, and key to his bike chain.

m m m

As the winter months set in, Charlie was really, really, starting to wish he still had a driver's license.

It truly hadn't been his fault. Don had called him, and there was shit going down at the FBI that they apparently needed a mathematician for. Immediately. He could accept that maybe the ensuing argument with the highway patrolman may have been kind of his fault, but...oh, well, to hell with it. The fact remained he was a fifty year old man riding a bicycle to work.

He locked up the bike and jogged to his first class, _Mathematics for the Non-Mathematician._ He'd been teaching this class for years, but now there was a distinct melancholia associated with it. He tried to suppress the feeling as he greeted the class.

m m m

If there was one thing that had not changed in twenty years, it was the office of Professor Charles Eppes.

The exact material had changed, but every surface was still piled high with papers. Every chalkboard still covered in scribbled equations. They'd returned from England a year after Rachel had been born, when Alan had fallen ill. They weren't sure if the move back to LA would be permanent or not, but when Alan eventually succumbed to heart attack in his sleep, it quickly became apparent that this was where they needed to be. Charlie and Amita began working at CalSci again, and they gave him back his office.

Larry Fleinhardt was waiting for him, sitting in his desk chair and fingering a sundial. He was creeping up on seventy, but was still clinging to his teaching position with as much enthusiasm as he'd always had for it. Not to mention he had a girlfriend twelve years younger than him.

"Morning, Larry."

"It's funny," he mused. "How people have dropped the 'good' in 'good morning.' I used to think it was a southern affectation, but it's so widespread..."

"Good morning, Larry," Charlie made a beeline for the coffee machine in the corner. "How's Megan?"

"She's good," Larry replied, eyes still on the sundial. "Very good."

Larry and Megan had both found their way back to Los Angeles in the last few years, resuming their relationship, while Megan joined Don again at the FBI. David Sinclair had also migrated back to LA, with his wife Elena and their children, adding to Don's team also, along with several younger newcomers.

"Don't you have class right now?"

Larry paused in his inspection of the dial. He looked up, and without saying a word, grabbed a handful of seemingly random papers off of Charlie's desk and sprinted out the room, presumably toward a lecture hall.

Charlie shook his head. He supposed that was another stagnant aspect of his life.

m m m

"Did you ride your bike here?"

"Nah, I took the bus," he smiled, taking a seat at the table across from her.

"Good, I worry about you."

"Apparently the DMV does too, hence the reason they took my license away."

Amita leaned across the table to kiss him lightly. "Good day so far?"

"I've had worse. You?"

"Same," she sipped at her drink. "I already got a call from Rachel's US history teacher. Got her phone taken away for the third time this month."

"That's better than usual," he frowned. "We should probably see to that, though."

Amita looked resigned. "I feel so helpless. I remember high school. I wasn't even aware people could get in as much trouble as she does."

"I was eleven in my junior year. Tell me about it."

"She takes more after Don, I suppose."

Charlie chuckled softly. "I never worried about him."

"Why not?"

"He was my big brother, invincible, as far as I was concerned. I was completely wrapped up in my own life at that point. He got arrested once at a party and I barely even noticed. And then that phase was over and he got serious about his life." He paused, and Amita spoke quietly.

"It's so different when it's your own daughter."

The humor had left the conversation. "Being at the FBI, you see what happens when women are in the wrong place at the wrong time. And Rachel seems to often put herself in an area where that wrong place is nearby."

Amita's lips were set in a thin line. It was clear he had upset her, even to him.

"I'm sorry; we should talk about something else."

They did manage to find another topic, but the rest of the meal seemed to have the volume turned down on it. They were laying down a credit card to pay the check when Charlie's cellphone chimed. He pressed talk and answered, "Charlie Eppes."

Amita watched him nod a few times, grab for his coat, and edge out of his seat. There was only one kind of regular call that could get him moving that quick.

"Right...I'll see you soon," he hung up, getting to his feet.

"Don?"

"He's gotta case."

"_Try_ to be back by dinner?"

"I'll do my best."


	4. Don and Charlie

"When did we become the dinosaurs?" Megan Reeves smiled in amusement from her viewpoint next to David, watching the swarm of young agents on the crime scene.

"It's amazing they even let us out in the field anymore," David snorted. "Probably worried we'll break a hip."

"I hate being old."

"You're not that old, Megan."

"Older than you. I'm two years away from retirement."

Thirty year old Roslyn Eng bounded up to them, and the two older agents tried not to be obviously jealous of her youthful zeal. "We haven't found anything yet—we're leaning toward it just being hoax."

"You should tell the woman who found it that. What was her name-?"

"Gwen Han."

"Yeah. Should put her mind at rest a little."

The three turned in unison when a shout went up from one of the forensic teams. An agent, Julio Valencia, popped his head up from one of the five foot deep holes.

"I've got a human skull, here! Heavy decomposition, looks to be child sized."

Suddenly the agents in the grave to his right popped their heads up like gophers, also, and after that it was a chain reaction, one after another.

"Oh my lord," was all Megan could mutter when all the thirteen sites had been accounted for.

And David called, "Somebody get Don on the phone."

m m m

"Brace yourself, Chuck."

"Don't call me Chuck, imbecile."

"Well you're a bigger one," Don smiled, despite the expectation of the grisly scene David had described to be awaiting them.

"Can I call you Donnie?"

"Can I call you Chuckster?"

"Can I call you asshole?" Charlie chuckled, wondering how many times they had had similar circuitous conversations, revolving around Don trying to call him anything but Charlie. Even his genius analytical brain couldn't produce a number.

"I'm serious, though."

"About what?"

"What you're about to see."

"Don, how long have we been working together? I'd like to think I can't be surprised anymore."

"I know, I know, but things aren't always as expected," Don knew his brother far to well to not offer up a warning. Charlie seemed to bounce between highly reclusive and overly empathetic, and had a knack for forgetting that he had the capacity for both.

Don pulled up the black SUV behind the line of LAPD cop cars and the few FBI vehicles. David and Megan met them on the sidewalk, and lead the way across the yellowed, and now dug up, glade.

David began to explain: "Jogger found the site this morning. Says she is certain they appeared overnight. Called 911 and we've been digging since nine in the morning. Just hit something about half an hour ago."

"A preliminary look makes us pretty certain that they're the bodies of children, all long dead. Just bones, really," Megan put in.

Don nodded. Charlie said nothing.

"This way."

Agents Eng and Valencia were directing the LAPD, as they placed the tattered remains into the black regulation bags.

Charlie did a quick tally in his head, eyes sweeping the scene. Thirteen neatly dug graves, all the kids gone long ago. How many families would find closure in this strange discovery? How many had been holding onto hope for so long, and now had nothing to hold on to at all?

He quickly started scribbling on a clipboard, taking a tape measure and rushing about, occasionally muttering to himself. Don raised an eyebrow in his brother's wake, but shook his head, resigned to his brother's weirdness.

An hour later, the bodies had been shipped off to a crime lab, and the final snapshots of the crime scene from every angle were being taken. The yellow police tape blew on a cold breeze, and the sky had clouded over. Don finished talking to a now very distressed Gwen Han, and wandered over to Charlie, whose pencil was moving furiously over a fifth piece of paper.

"Anything?"

Charlie didn't look up.

"Charlie?" Don poked him in the side, and Charlie jumped back into a normal consciousness.

"Uh?"

"Find anything?"

"Working on it," he stopped writing, though, turning his eyes onto the messy field.

"It's unbelievable," said Don, after a long moment.

Charlie took a deep breath, eyes looking even bigger and darker than usual. "I certainly can't believe it. The hardest part is the _why_. I never understand it. Only sick, sick people can do this."

"It's different now, with our own kids," Don murmured.

"Please," Charlie replied through gritted teeth, and Don didn't continue. He looked over at his younger brother, and wondered, not for the first time, how he had ever made it through high school so young. Charlie could take any course they could throw at him, but high school had always been more than academics. It seemed a monumental task for the short, skinny, sensitive Charlie to have survived those four years. No wonder he couldn't relate to the struggles of his daughter now.

Though, really, it wasn't Don's place to judge. He shied away from those deep thoughts.

They packed up their remaining gear and headed back to the office.


	5. Rachel and Jayne

**Author's Note; If you're reviewing, I love you and thank you. Seriously. Reviews make my day. If you're reading this, I also love you, because that's still super nice. Anyways, enjoy!**

"You, Rachel Ramanujan Eppes, are royally fucked."

"I know," I replied sullenly, taking the paper as she handed it back to me. Mr. Hunter had marked my unfortunate calculus grade with an unhappy emoticon, as if I didn't already know the appropriate response to a solid D.

"You're going to have to get a tutor," Jayne Lightfoot told me, turning her electric blue eyes on me. She had dark brown hair, long legged, but most people couldn't get past her preternatural eyes. They weren't quite beautiful, just shocking. If you didn't know her, it was easy to lose your train of thought upon making eye contact. I had known her for ten years, and had no problem looking at her full in the face. "Failing grades will get you kicked off the team, no matter how good you are."

I sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time since receiving my semester grade. "I know."

"You should talk to Adrian Singh."

"I'm sure my ex boyfriend would _love_ to help me with my math homework. Also, he hates math."

"Yeah, but he's good at it. And since you won't ask your parents, who have _math doctorates,_ for the love of God, you now have no choice but to resort to exes," she certainly wasn't sugar coating it. I wasn't sure if I appreciated that or not.

"You know why I can't ask my parents."

"Cause you're stubborn and hate them?"

"I don't hate them. Mostly. I just hate when they get all excited about stuff I have no hope of understanding."

She bit on her thumbnail as she thought, staring off across the soccer field. Practice had ended, but like most we were delaying heading home as long as possible. After a while, she said, "Adrian always was a good teacher. You have to admit."

It was true. He had always been patient, calm. When we'd gone out, and when the relationship had fallen apart, it had been me who was yelling, and him who would quietly get his things and leave. I tried to recall the last time I'd talked to him on friendly terms.

"Well," Jayne stood. "I better head home. You need a ride?"

"Nah, I managed to get the car this morning."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"See ya."

I watched her leave, knowing she usually didn't mean to be prickly. She didn't talk about it much, but I knew she'd had some kinda weird childhood, as she was adopted and used to live in Philadelphia. I also knew her real parents were dead, and that I had never seen her drink or do drugs. She was a little off beat in general, but I suppose that's just the kind of person I ended up being with.

Adrian had been weird like that. Always talking about moving to New York the moment he got the chance.

I drove home stoically, hoping against hope that somehow my parents would forget about school and grades and math.

m m m

It's a somber affair.

Mom held out a hand, and I placed my phone and the car keys in it without a word. Her expression was cold, restrained, like she wanted to yell but wouldn't let herself lose her cool. Dad just stared at his plate, didn't say a word. That was worse, the obvious exhaustion. Not just from a long day of work, but from this scene not being particularly unique.

But not even my dad's puppy dog eyes could make me feel remorseful. It wasn't my fault I didn't have a genius IQ, a predispositioned affinity for mathematics, or academics in general. But they couldn't see past that, it seemed. Did they go to my soccer games? Only when they couldn't get out of it. Yes, I was bitter, and no, I wasn't afraid to show it.

I stood up, grabbing the report card and turning on my heel to leave the dining room. Upstairs, I rubbed at the bridge of my nose, pulling on a pair of headphones and turned the volume up as high as it would go.


	6. Don and Kenneth

**Author's Note: Wow, thanks for all the reviews! This chapter is a little longer, about 1500 words. Originally, I'd aimed to keep chapters under 1000, but there's a lot I wanted to move forward in this one. Enjoy!**

"Holy shit," Julio Valencia muttered under his breath, and looked to David as if to say, _is this for real?_

"Weird, huh?" Megan remarked. "Kinda changes the obvious theory."

"I should say so."

Don strolled toward them, alternating his briefcase from hand to hand as he pulled off his coat. "Is that the findings from yesterday?"

"We're gonna need Charlie in on this one."

"Since when do we not need Charlie?" murmured Don, directing his eyes to the report. In twenty-five years of his brother consulting, it was still a rare occurrence that stranger cases like this one couldn't be helped by having a genius mathematician working on the team.

He read over the preliminary findings, eyebrows raising higher and higher with each sentence. "Well...that's considerably different than..." he trailed off, and kept reading.

Dental records had been found for all thirteen victims. Each had been under the age of ten. All had died between 1973 and 1981. All had been buried in cemeteries across Los Angeles county. Their causes of death ranged from cancer to car accidents to murder to unknown causes. That morning thirteen calls had been made to local law enforcement to report grave robbings. All of the bodies had been reburied in the glade, all without new fingerprints.

"Whoa."

"We're thinking whoever did this is trying to send a message," Megan started, and Don nodded. "To the families, about something to do with the children's death. Or maybe even to the FBI, to say we've made a mistake somehow, get our attention. We've just started looking for connections between the children."

"Good plan, I'll call Charlie and see if he can get down here. Anything else found at the scene?"

"There were some tire tracks on the asphalt, some light boot prints. There's yet to be any conclusive identification," Julio explained.

"Alright, let's get on this," Don settled into his desk chair, enjoying, as usual the office he had moved to from his old cubicle. The other agents left, and he reached for his phone, struggling for a moment to unlock it. He ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair as the phone rang next to his ear.

m m m

"This is good, this is good," Charlie touched his bottom lip as he opened up one of the files on Don's desk. "With this much information, I'll definitely be able to develop something that'll find any connections."

Don looked over his shoulder, as the names and dates of death flipped by under Charlie's fingertips. "Well, the sooner the better. The family's are pretty shook up over the whole thing."

"I can imagine," he scowled. "Unfortunately."

Charlie sat down in the swivel chair, beginning to scribble rapidly on a piece of scratch paper.

"Hey, man, you took my seat."

Charlie either didn't hear him or ignored him, for he didn't look up at Don's exclamation.

"Whatever," he left Charlie alone in his office, heading over to grab more coffee. He walked purposely toward where David and Julio were talking to the first of the effected families. His phone vibrated in his pocket before he reached them. The caller ID had him picking it up on the first ring.

"Eppes."

"Hey, Dad, it's me."

"Yeah, my phone told me. What's up?" he could hear piano music in the background, and he wondered if it was her concert, or someone else's. He could imagine her standing out in the lobby of some fancy venue, twirling a straight piece of brown hair, pushing her glasses up her nose.

"Well, I get out of school on Thursday. I'm just wondering what day I should come home."

"Whenever you want, Maggie. Charlie and Amita get out Friday, Kenneth and Rachel on Monday. But that's irrelevant. It's up to you."

"And you? When do you get a break?"

"Well, you know the FBI."

There was a pause. "Yeah, I do."

Margaret Eppes (the second) was a college sophomore studying music in Seattle. She was quiet, introverted. When she was younger, Don had worried she had become that way after the divorce, but it had become clear that it was simply her nature, and was in no way an impediment to her mind or well being. Though, like Charlie, she was not always good with the social conventions.

"I'll leave Saturday morning," she said, after a while.

"Drive careful."

"I will. See you soon."

"Love you."

She hung up, and Don looked down at the coffee he had made. He put it down on someone's desk, suddenly feeling no particular need for it. It was more of a habit then a necessity, sometimes. He'd been up since five, but was wide awake, his body adapted to the early rising. He hated rushing in the morning, so he always gave himself a solid two and a half hours to run, shower, eat a slow breakfast and catch up on the sports section. Drove his son nuts, but that was half the reason he did it. It was far too much fun to mess with the fifteen year old Kenneth.

By midday, having spent the entire morning consoling long-suffering families of dead children, he was regretting his lost coffee cup. Thirteen separate meetings, each becoming more painful than the last, and Charlie was still muttering to himself in his office.

They nearly ran into each other as Charlie was leaving.

"Hey, where're you going?"

"I was gonna go home and grab something to eat," Charlie explained, hefting a laptop and several pads of paper.

"You're leaving?"

"I'll keep working on it at home, I just wanna talk to Amita."

Don scrutinized him for a second. "Alright."

Charlie rolled his eyes as he was walking away, and the glared at the inside of the elevator. He really hadn't been asking permission.

m m m

At six, Don decided he needed to make an appearance at home. Kenneth would be back by now, and wondering where his dad was. He told Megan he'd be back and drove home.

They lived in a little apartment in the city, with two small bedrooms and a common area. The family had downsized when Robin left, and then again when Maggie had gone off to college. In return for the smaller living space, father and son held season tickets for several major league sports teams in the LA area. The apartment was lit when he unlocked the door, and Kenny was biting the end of his pencil as he did homework at the kitchen counter. His natural hair color was a sandy blonde, but he'd recently dyed it near black for a school play, enunciating the facial resemblance to his father. He had the same shortish stocky build, though with more of a gift for academics.

"Hey, you gotta new case?"

"Yeah, I'll be heading back in an hour or so. How was school?"

"Fine. I took the bus home and nearly got stabbed, but other than that, fine."

Don raised his eyebrows in amusement. Often Rachel would drive him home, but apparently Kenneth had gotten a glance at her report card, and Don had correctly predicted that she would be without keys or phone for a good long while.

Kenneth closed his textbook with a sigh of finality, and nodded toward the television set. "There's a game on."

Don shed his coat. "Yeah?"

Without a word they settled into the couch, and Don, much to his own dismay, couldn't help but think that maybe the case could wait.

m m m

Charlie arrived to a quiet house, though he was fairly sure Rachel was home, probably sulking upstairs. Amita was likely still at school, grading or advising. He'd meant to ask her for her help with the case, but he didn't call her. He dawdled, hoping to slightly inconvenience Don, by going for a run before the sun set.

He changed, stretched, and then began the grueling act of exercise. He'd never been an athlete, but in his advancing age he had been numerously reminded that he needed to stay healthy. So he toughed it out three times a week and assumed that it wasn't all a waste, that he didn't have some crippling and unavoidable genetic illness. Which is exactly the kind of thing he'd end up worrying about.

A few minutes later, his first mile marker was coming up, a mail box a few streets over that approximated the first five thousand two hundred and eighty feet. Instead of his burning lungs, he focused on the lettering on the roadside mailbox, the stickers, that put together, spelled the last name _Ablemarle. _

The realization hit him like a brick wall.

He stopped mid stride, breath still coming in short gasps, as his mind connected the dots. It all became clear as he recalled the names of the children he had spent the afternoon studying.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, and turned on his heel.

He ran the return mile in six minutes, thirty four seconds, a personal best. He'd have to brag to Don about that later.


	7. Rachel and Adrian

**Author's Note: So, here's another chapter. Shout out to notsing, who has reviewed every chapter. Seriously, your reviews make my day!**

I met Adrian Singh in the library on Tuesday, during lunch. He gave me a thin smile and beckoned me over to a table next to the science fiction section.

He had his usual chronic bed head, usual novelty t-shirt whose reference I couldn't hope but understand. I tried to look like I wasn't desperately wishing that I could be anywhere else and took the seat across from him.

"So you need a tutor?"

"I figured it's be easier now that we weren't trying to date."

"I'd be happy to help." I didn't think he looked particularly happy, but I knew he would suffer through it nonetheless. And so would I, if I intended to keep my status as girl's soccer captain. We would bite the inside of our cheek as long as we had to, just like the last month of our relationship. I looked at him and couldn't find any ounce what I had once felt for him, and judging by his expression he was thinking the same thing. We were different people then we had been when he'd first asked me out.

But I needed him.

I looked back on the last twenty four hours and tried not to get angry with how this week was going.

We cracked open my calculus textbook and I showed him the results of my last quiz. He gave me some rereading to do and told me to meet him again tomorrow. We were both so polite, proper, careful. As if we were strangers.

I'm about to leave when he surprised me with a question.

"Are your parents mad about your grade?"

I was so caught off guard I answered truthfully. "You better believe it."

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, spout some sort of deep Adrian wisdom, like he always used to. The fucker.

I thanked him and took my leave.

m m m

I skipped the last period of the day, as it what was one of the classes I wasn't currently failing, and met Vera outside to watch a PE class do laps. We took seats on the bleachers and enjoyed the moderate LA temperatures, lying back and staring up at the bright sky through sunglasses. The gym teacher I didn't see us from the track or chose not to, and so we talked and half watched the boys run sprints and relays.

"It's a shame Jayne never comes out here with us," Vera commented.

"You know skipping's not her style. She's way smarter than us."

"It's amazing she even tolerates us delinquents."

"Speaking of which, do you have any mary jane on you?"

"Nah, the kid I buy from just raised his prices. I'll have to find a new dealer," she replied, and then smirked. "Also, I hear that stuff is addictive."

"You're one to talk. I'm not the one who has her own dealer."

"I'm already fucked up. You're still relatively innocent."

I tried not to be offended, but Vera had stopped smiling, and the conversation seemed to have taken a weird turn. Finally, I said, "C'mon, man, I've had a shitty day."

She was quiet for a while. Below us, on the track, Hartley Severide won the eight hundred meter dash easily, long legs propelling him forward.

Vera said, "He's hot, ain't he?"

I just turned away from her, biting my tongue.

m m m

On the bus, Kenneth was about to get himself punched in the throat, but I pulled him into the seat next to me before he could get assaulted.

"How is it that all your enemies ride the same bus?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "In fact, how is it that you have so many enemies?"

He shrugged. "You should ask them. I have no memory of the my supposed offenses."

"Well it's a good thing your cousin's here to save your ass."

"I would've been alright."

"Oh, yeah? Then get the hell out of my seat."

Kenneth rolled his eyes and smiled, and I caved, smiling back.


	8. Julio and Roslyn

**Author's Note: So, here's another chapter. Hope it is enjoyed and please review!**

Undeterred by a sore hip, likely the result of his impromptu six minute mile the day before, Charlie rushed into the FBI first thing in the morning to share his findings. He'd called ahead and the team was waiting for him in the war room.

He didn't pause to catch his breath before launching into an explanation. "So, yesterday, I had a bit of an epiphany."

Don, Megan, Julio, and Roslyn were sipping on coffee, having yet to catch his enthusiasm.

"I realized I had only been evaluating the connections between the numbers of the children, rather than any overall patterns, which happened to actually be in the letters of their last names. Naturally I would look at the numbers first—addresses, ages, social security numbers, dates of death...but it took a mailbox to actually get me to see the actual coalescence."

Don raised an eyebrow. "Charlie, please get to the point."

"Hold on, I'm getting there," he continued. "It's their last names. Mograbi, Adamson, Renteria, Tully, Emerson, Lucsly, Eigenberg. In the right order, they spell _M-A-R-T-E-L-E._ And of course we've all heard that name before."

The agents exchanged surprised looks.

"So they were trying to send a message," Megan muttered, and Don looked at her. "I mean, obviously they wanted us to know who did it."

"But this isn't their usual sort of crime," Julio said. "The Martele brothers are all about the money. This gains nothing, from their perspective."

It was true. The brothers had been involved in money related crimes for twenty years, since the younger man was twenty-one and the older thirty. And they had always gotten away clean, their minions taking the fall, if any evidence was even left behind at all. It could be anything from bank heists to stocks to computer hacking, teams up with gangs and organized crime along with their own henchmen, but all in all the FBI could connect them to at least five hundred and eighty-seven crimes involving currency. But all they had was speculation. It made Don angry just to think about all the times they'd brought in one or the other brother for questioning and watched them walk away as free men. Even Charlie couldn't get them convicted.

But this latest crime made no sense. It didn't follow the Martele mentality in the slightest.

"Perhaps they've been framed," Don mused. "It wouldn't surprise me if they've racked up a few enemies over the years."

"This isn't exactly the kind of crime you use to get revenge."

"Lab results," David called, entering the room and hoisting an manilla envelope.

"Tire tracks found next to the crime scene just came back. A high brow Lexus sedan."

Don and Charlie exchanged a look. "Can you guess the person we all know who happens to drive a Lexus?"

David smiled grimly. "That's what I thought too. And there happens to be a black Lexus sedan registered to our friend Sterling Martele."

"Alright, well, that should be grounds to at least go pick 'em up," Don declared. "I can't think for the life of me why they'd do this, but maybe they can shed some light on that. Megan and Julio, you should go. Watch your backs, we all know they're not above shooting back. Actually, David, you go with them. We gotta get these guys this time."

The three grabbed their coats and guns and headed out.

"And me?" Roslyn leaped down from her seat on the table, pulling her dark hair back into a ponytail.

"Go down and grab all the files we might be able to connect to the Martele's. If we can legitimately make an arrest then we can probably search their stuff, and I want to be ready if we can add anything else to their conviction."

Roslyn seemed more enthusiastic than was necessary about accessing files. "Okay."

Charlie took a seat after she'd left, and looked up at Don, who had his cellphone out and was dialing a familiar number.

"Who're you calling?"

"Robin," Don replied, without looking up.

Charlie's eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling. "Why?"

"She wants to see the Martele brothers out of commission as much as I do. She'll want a piece of this."

"When's the last time you saw her in person?"

Don thought a moment. "She came by last winter to see the kids for a day."

Robin had left fourteen years before, and given Don full custody of Kenneth and Maggie without a fight. She was still a prosecutor, but had moved to San Diego and spent very little time back in LA. It had apparently, though Don talked about the divorce as little as possible, become evident that Robin was not dealing well with family life, a fact which had gotten Don's therapist countless hours of overtime.

The phone rang four times, before Charlie could hear a female voice pick up.

"Hey, Robin, it's Don. I...hello?" he took the phone away from his ear, stared at it in puzzlement. "She hung up on me."

Charlie smiled slowly. "Just like every other girl you've ever called."

The reply was a balled up piece of paper thrown at Charlie's head.

"No, but seriously. I thought you guys were on good terms."

"Me too," Don muttered. "As far as I can tell she has to be in the right mood to talk to me. In the right mood to 'delve into her short bid with the domestic life' as she once explained it to me."

"You know," Charlie smirked. "I never thought that after fifty years I'd end up as the one with the girl. And I definitely never thought that your wife would be the one to shy away from commitment, in a very Don Eppes fashion."

"Yeah, well, life is full of surprises."

It was clear Don was done talking about Robin.

m m m

Don seemed to get an immediate stress headache the minute his three agents walked off the elevator empty handed.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, and the expressions on his people's face echoed that statement pretty well.

"We should have known the Martele brothers are only found when they want to be," Megan growled.

"Who knows how many buildings they own across the city, under aliases."

"Shit."

"I'll second that."

"Okay, well, let's comb through what we know. See if we can find a favorite among there escape routes. And we still have to confer with some of the children's families. I'll get on that. Megan, you too." They'd put out an APB on the Martele's, but Don doubted they'd leave the city. They had connections here, quick places to lay low. The _why_ of the crime was still weighing on Don, though, given how it didn't fit with their usual MO at all.

Megan braced herself, setting her lips in a thin line and following him out. Charlie, seeing no immediate application for his skills, began to pack up to head back to CalSci. David headed back to his desk. Julio trudged back to the cubicles he shared with Roslyn, who was sifting through files on her desktop computer. He glanced over her shoulder before settling into his own chair.

"Why are you in personnel files?" he asked, with only vague interest.

She exited the page and shrugged, looking at her hands. "Just clicked the wrong thing."

He pointed to a pile of newly printed paper. "Are those the Martele cases?"

She shifted a few stapled packets off the top that he couldn't read, placing them in one of her desk drawers, and then motioned to the rest of the pile. "Yep, those are the ones."

They split the pile in half and Julio swiveled back to his own workplace, opening the first envelope. He took a deep breath, but the inexplicable knot of tension in his stomach didn't dissolve.


	9. The Martele Brothers and the Henchmen

**Author's Note: A new chapter, shorter than the last. Enjoy and review!**

A skinny ginger man in a very expensive suit was sighing at a similar ginger man in a similar very expensive suit.

Philliberto towered over his older brother in one of many unmarked warehouses owned by the Martele's in the business district of the city of Angels.

"Why can't you just tell me what's happening?"

"Because," Sterling replied stubbornly. "For now, only I can know."

"I thought we were partners in this."

"This isn't business, Phil. And you're still the younger brother."

"If this isn't business, than what it is?"

Sterling handed him the stack of paper. "Go give this to the men. We leave in an hour for our next...project."

Phil took what was given to him without another word, and entered the larger hanger, leaving Sterling in their makeshift office. Despite the recent turmoil, his allegiance was always to his brother. Twenty years of trust tried to sooth Phil's nerves.

He gathered the men together, passed out the files. Personal info stapled together into packets. The twenty men gathered around the six stacks of paper.

"Our informants inside the FBI have obtained these personnel files on the violent crimes team that has been assembled to convict us. We have yet to determine whether they will move quick enough to become a threat to our enterprises. But read up, boys. If they become a problem, we will have to take action against them and their close relations. If you cannot read, find someone that can. This is being delegated to you. I will indicate when the time is right to begin any operations. Be ready."

"In short, be ready to mentally destroy them," Sterling had appeared behind Phil, a sharp glint in his eye.

"Hey, boss," A tall blonde raised a file above his head to grab the Martele's attention. "Who the hell is this guy? It says he's not an agent."

"He's a consultant," Sterling answered, without having to glance at the paperwork. "Brother of the lead agent. When the time comes, he'd be a good option to take out. Mathematicians aren't usually armed."

Phil took a steadying breath. Whatever this was, it was big. They had never gone out of their way to kill cops before. It was always just collateral damage in their schemes. And Sterling didn't usually get involved in the physical aspects, being a natural planner. Phil had always managed the men, dealt with the tactical maneuvers. But now everything was different, and it was changing far too fast for Phil's liking.

"We move out in thirty minutes, boys. Prepare the crates for transfer."

Sterling headed back to the office, and then disappeared through a second door, into their sleeping quarters. Phil followed him at a slower pace, hands stuffed in pockets, feet dragging. He took a heavy seat in one of the plastic office chairs, fingered one of the prepaid cellphones they'd bought to use in emergencies. He glanced at the closed door Sterling had gone through, and then back at the phone. He could call Cecile, and no one would know. He could tell her he was okay and would be back soon. But that would be a lie, as he had no idea when they'd be back. If Sterling ever planned to go back to how things were. When they bathed in money and did jobs when they felt like it. When they didn't have to try to intimidate FBI agents because their crimes remained untouchable. He got the feeling they were heading down a dark path, signaled by a bad taste in his throat that simply wouldn't go away. Phil massaged the bridge of his nose and sighed in frustration and sadness. He hated his loss of control, as if the pilot had passed out and the plane was nosediving, but he didn't know how to fly it to safety.

He looked up at the map of Los Angeles on the wall, the red dots tracing a route through the city that was the only indication of Sterling's overall plan.

He had never wished for Cecile's presence more than he did now.

Sterling had become a stranger, and he was alone.


	10. Rachel and Amita

**Author's Note: Back to the teenagers for this chapter. Hopefully enjoyable. As always, review and I'll love you forever.**

"So, have you thought of an excuse yet?" Vera sat down heavily, heavier than should have been possible with her small frame, in the seat next to me, already eyeing her food like a wild dog.

"Yeah, actually," I replied. "The whole Adrian thing is paying off in more ways than one. I told them we're studying Friday."

"Your parents always did like him," Jayne put in.

"Perfect," Vera smiled in excitement.

"Not quite," I said. "they're still not gonna let me drive. His house is too close by. So you'll need to pick me up down the street."

"Eh, that's gonna be a problem," I raised an eyebrow, and Vera continued. "My sister crashed our car. Or maybe it was my dad. I forget."

We simultaneously looked to Jayne.

Her face immediately melted into irritation. "C'mon, you guys, I hate going out on Friday. Getting all made up after working my ass off all day. Also, you know I suck at parties."

"Oh, we know."

She rolled her eyes. "Great job winning me over."

I put on my best look of innocence. "Please, Jayne, just this once? I'm stuck at home indefinitely. I need reason to brush my hair. You want me to keep brushing my hair, right?"

"That sounds like a personal problem."

She attempted to avert her eyes, take a bite of food, glance through her purse, but Vera and I kept her under our unrelenting stare.

Finally, she sighed, pursing her lips together. "Fuck it. I hate you. I'll pick you up at eight."

"I love you, Jayne."

"Damn straight," she gathered her things, threw away the remainder of her food.

"I'll see you later. Unfortunately."

m m m

Friday came, and I it was as though I could breathe for the first time since discovering my calculus grade.

"So, you and Adrian...?" Mom raised a curious eyebrow as I did myself up in front of the mirror.

"He's tutoring me, you know, so I can stay in soccer."

"And...?"

"And what?"

"Well, your dad and I met—"

"Mom, please don't."

"Okay, okay," she held up her hands in defeat, still smiling. "Call me when you leave his house, I wanna know when you're walking home in the dark."

"'Kay."

"And wear a coat. It's cold, for LA, at least."

"Fine," Not even her nagging could break my good mood. The anticipation of the party had me practically glowing, or so I hoped. I touched up my make-up and put on a dress and boots.

I didn't see dad downstairs, so I figured he must have been at the FBI. Yes, I did think there was some bad-ass points in having my dad and uncle working with the FBI, and had occasionally utilized the fact to intimidate irritants. But most of the time it just meant that most of my family spent a helluva lot of time at work.

Outside, it was indeed cold, but only by a Los Angeleno's standards. I walked a block down the street, turned a corner, and found Jayne's car pulling up to the curve with Vera in the shotgun seat. Vera was grinning maniacally, Jayne was still looking pissed off.

"I like your outfit," Vera said, as I slid into the backseat. "Very feminine."

"I don't know if that's an insult, but I'm gonna say 'shut up' anyway."

"Can we just get this over with so I can go home and watch TV?" Jayne whined. "And we're only staying two hours, by the way. I told my parents I'd be home by ten."

"Since when do your parents care? Weren't they in a band or something?"

She was silent for a long time. I silently cursed Vera for saying anything.

"My real parents are dead because they were in a band. Because they didn't give a shit about themselves or education or curfew," her voice lowered. "And maybe they did something great for a while, but it wasn't worth a heroine OD and drunk driving."

Vera glanced back at me. No one said a word, the only sound coming from LA traffic.

"That's fucked up," I said after a while.

Jayne's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. "No shit."

Even after all the injustices committed against me that week at the hands of my parents, at least I didn't have to say they were dead in a cramped car full of people who couldn't possibly understand.

We arrived at the party, the quiet still heavy on our shoulders. I didn't actually know the guy who's house it was, so I assumed Vera knew, but one look at the mansion told me it didn't matter if I knew him or not. Pool, terrace and wall of windows, overlooking the city. Yes, I might be able to enjoy this.


	11. Don and David

**Author's Note: Wow, you guys are amazing. So many reviews. You've made this week amazing, along with me finding out that I'm going to go see one of my favorite bands live in May. So yeah. It's not hard to make me happy when I get loads of lovely review and concert tickets. Love you guys! And now, a question. Because I'm relatively new to the Numb3rs fandom, I was wondering if anybody knew of any good future Eppes family fics. I read a really good one a few days ago, and since I'm writing one, I was just interested in other people's takes on the time after the show. Any suggestions are much appreciated!**

"Don, we got something."

"Yeah?"

"A car bomb in the suburbs. No deaths."

"And?"

"Can you guess who's tire tracks we found at the scene?"

Don turned in his chair, taking the new file from David. "The plot thickens."

m m m

"And we're sure these are the same?" Megan inspected the the blackened asphalt.

"It's either that or a huge coincidence," Julio replied.

"Unlikely," Don added. "Same kind of crime. A statement, no deaths."

"Yet," said Megan. "They may be sending a message, but that doesn't mean they won't escalate to worse crimes."

"Hey, I just talked to one of the witnesses," David joined the group. "They say a black Lexus sedan pull up, followed by a dark blue jeep. Three men got out, all dressed completely in black, faces covered, fiddled with a parked car, and then drove away. Approximately two minutes later it blew."

"And what was the witness doing before the explosion?"

"Calling LAPD. The boom cut him off in the middle of the call."

Charlie still hadn't said a word, leaning against Don's car and staring thoughtfully at the ground. Finally he spoke, and it was more to himself than anyone else. "So the only pattern is that there's no pattern, other than marking the crime with the tire track," he paused. "I'll have to see if there's any connection between the data we have for this crime and the one involving the grave robbing. Maybe they left us another clue."

"All I can deduce from this is that it's probably just the beginning. They wouldn't be messing with the stuff without a longer agenda," Julio ruminated.

"Which means this is not the last we'll hear of the Martele brothers," Don said. "Let's put out a warrant for them. They've never left Los Angeles after crimes before, so maybe they'll slip up and we'll be able to snatch 'em."

m m m

Lester had an impressive headache. He really shouldn't have gotten out of bed that morning.

He slid his key into the apartment door, nearly missing the yellow post-it note all together. He caught it at the last moment, just as he was pushing the door open. He had to squint at it for a moment to get his eyes to focus on the half cursive handwriting, unmistakably Justine's.

The apartment was dark and silent. His throbbing forehead thanked the lord. He needed to sleep, not even sure if he could get his mouth to move in the normal greeting routine, get his limbs to start working on dinner.

He wondered about Justine' absence, and had to reread the note to remember what it said.

_Gone running. Back by 5:30 at the latest._

He looked at the clock on the mantel. It was 6:15.

Anxiety gripped his chest like a vise, as he glanced outside at the rapidly blackening skies. It was at that moment he had the terrifying premonition that he would not be sleeping for some time.

m m m

Charlie's eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as he compared the two files. It took three rings and Megan laughing at him for him to realize that it was his own phone ringing.

"Charlie Eppes," he answered distractedly, not bothering to check the ID. He woke up out of his working stupor quickly though, once the news had been dictated to him. He motioned to Don across the room, already grabbing his coat.

"What is it, buddy?"

Charlie's expression was dark, in a way Don did not like to see on his little brother.

"You're not going to believe this," Charlie muttered. "Actually, well, you might." He was already speeding toward the staircase, Don hurrying to keep up.

"Where are we going?"

Charlie held the door for him. "LAPD."


	12. Rachel and Hartley

In my defense, the whole ordeal could have been a lot worse, had I not had some forethought.

We walked into the party, Jayne looking more murderous with each step. Vera quickly drained a red solo cup of unidentified liquid and disappeared upstairs with her on again/off again boyfriend Tyler, a guy who we all universally hated, but was annoyingly good looking.

I nodded to the surprising amount of people I knew, milling around the massive and already completely trashed living room. Music was playing, the deep bass shaking my rib cage in somewhere between elation and anxiety. Various objects were being thrown down from the indoor balcony, to hysterical giggling when someone got clobbered below. Several people were passed out on the floor. Two guys were having a light saber battle with what looked like actual props. No adult was in sight.

I smiled. This was my kind of party.

I offered a cup to Jayne, who just glared, before taking one for myself. I drank about as much as I smoked weed—which was only when I was really down on life. And that was basically my world view for this whole week.

I sipped on my drink, pacing myself, and slipped out the back sliding door with Jayne following like a storm cloud. A few couples were frolicking in the pool, and I did not look too carefully but joined a crowd at the edge of some scraggly woods.

Three guys were joking around, surrounded by a crowd of half terrified, half curious onlookers. Jayne saw what they were doing, and being the sensible one, bolted back to the house. I, intrigued, stepped forward. Only then could I hear the gunshots over the music and voices.

The boys, in between stumbling about wildly and laughing, were aiming at a row glow sticks taped to a tree. I rolled my eyes at their horrible aim, stepping through the crowd and up the guys.

"Hand it over, dumb ass," I said, reaching for the handgun. "And I'll show you how it's done."

I figured it was the usual power fantasy. The idea of establishing dominance and putting down a couple of drunk classmates. Always a good time. Plus my own dose of unnamed alcohol was starting to kick in, so the usual "this is a bad idea" instinct was too late to wake me up.

I put three rounds in the dead center of the makeshift target. I could only imagine that this was not what my uncle had in mind when he took me to the shooting range all those months ago. Dad had protested, but Don had insisted it was not a bad skill to have. Mom and Dad had eventually caved, and I could tell Don was not too happy about shooting a gun having to be a life skill in the first place.

_But it's a great party trick,_ I thought sarcastically.

The crowd clapped.

Now this was where my little stroke of genius came in.

Before handing the gun back, I cleaned off my finger prints with the edge of my coat, not so intoxicated to think of possible unfortunate implications involved in my little moment of superiority.

I then began to meander back to the house, satisfied with my little detour. God, I loved parties like this. Losing your shit for a night. I honestly didn't know how people over thirty managed without letting loose for a while.

I had made it back to the pool by the time I realized that the music had stopped.

A couple sat at a lawn table snorting coke lazily. How high school students had the money for cocaine, I had no idea.

"Hey, where'd the music go?" I asked them. They gave noncommittal grunts and continued to breathe through a rolled up dollar.

I then heard the screams, and people began to flood out of every orifice of the house. Beams of light could be visible inside. I stood there like an idiot for a while, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Police! Freeze!"

My stomach dropped into my shoes. "Shit," I breathed, turning on my heel to run around the pool, to somehow disappear in the darkness. The guys with the crack had already beaten it. I felt the beam of a flashlight shine by my ear, and knew I had tried to escape too late.

"Stop right there, hon," A voice said from close behind me. "Don't make a mistake."

I contemplated sprinting ahead, but I wasn't certain enough that I'd make it. And it'd make me look guilty, as my crime-acquainted family had pointed out more than once. I was royally fucked over no matter what I did, so I did as I was told. I put my hands up behind my head, let them slap the cuffs on and lead me around the house to a legion of cop cars as the officer asked me questions. I was not clear headed enough to lie, after all the action of the last few moments.

"What's your name?"

"Rachel Eppes."

"How old are you?"

I sighed. "Seventeen."

"Are you inebriated?"

"No," I replied, after remembering what 'inebriated' meant, and thought, _Not really._

The officer, a guy in his thirties, raised a skeptical eyebrow. I wondered what my breath smelled like.

He sat me in the back of a car with two other girls, one of which was desperately trying to contain her laughter, one hand over her mouth, chest heaving with effort. I was tempted as what she'd been smoking. The other girl was sobbing quietly next to the window, which was closer to what I was feeling. This was bad. Really, really bad.

I leaned my head against the cool window glass and sulked.

m m m

By the time I'm lead into a cell, full of other students at the party, I was pretty sure I was dying.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

My stomach was churning, a headache brewing behind my temples. The other kids lying about the cell were in similar states of slow death, all chained to various furniture items, waiting for someone to bail them out. I didn't want to stay here, but I definitely didn't want to deal with going home.

I scanned the room for familiar faces. Vera and Jayne seemed to have made it out in time, those lucky bitches. I did catch the eyes of a familiar face, though, the track star Hartley Severide.

He was tall and thin, with a head of close cropped dark curls. I nodded to him. "Hi, Hartley."

He slid across a bench toward me. "What's up, Rachel?"

"I'm chained to a chair. But other than that, I'm fine. How are you?"

"Definitely not drunk."

"I wish I could say likewise, but I honestly can't tell anymore."

"Yeah, you don't look quite right."

"Thanks."

"I mean that in the nicest way possible," he smiled, and I looked up from massaging my forehead.

"You look nice tonight," he said. "Even in handcuffs."

"Yeah, I bet you like that part the best, huh?"

He laughed. "You're on the soccer team, right?"

"Yep."

"Y'all ever play games?"

I snorted. I was not at my most amiable. "On occasion."

"When's your next one?"

"We have a make up game Monday night," I glanced at his expression. "You should come by."

"And maybe afterwards we could get something to eat, or whatever," he pulled on the edge of his hoodie nonchalantly.

"Yeah," I replied, and paused. "So, do you always hit on girls you meet in police stations?"

"Always," we smiled at each other for a blissful moment, to my own surprise.

Which was exactly when two very angry Eppes men appeared outside our cell. I quickly descended back into misery.


	13. Phil and Cecile

"Hello?"

"Cecile, it's Philliberto."

"What? Where the hell have you guys been?! The news is saying the FBI's after you."

"I can't say where we are."

He could practically see Cecile Linka grit her teeth on the other end of the line, in her downtown apartment. Her blonde hair would be up, as it was late in the evening, and she'd be sprawled on her couch with a glass of wine. Her home self was always in contrast with her prim and neat campaign manager self, but he knew her well enough to see both sides.

"Then why the fuck did you bother to call?"

"I just wanted to let you know I'm not dead. And that I don't know when I'll be back."

"And that I shouldn't worry?" he couldn't quite tell if that was sarcasm on her part.

He was silent for a while. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that."

She growled, "Christ, Phil. This is some new kind of bullshit you guys are pulling. Grave robbing and car bombs? I thought it was just the money."

"I thought so, too," he said quietly.

She breathed in, her voice a little gentler. "Then what's going on, Phil?"

He thought, _If only I knew, _and then saw the men's van pulling into the hanger. His time was up. Sterling would arrive any second to see what they'd accomplished. He said to Cecile, "Look, I can't talk any longer. I'll try to call you later. If something else...I love you."

"Love you too. Stay safe."

He didn't reply to that, simply ending the call.

m m m

The third strike was finished, and Phil could tell the men had enjoyed this one. Personally he found it to make his stomach churn. He was no saint, but he had made an attempt in the last twenty years to spare the lives of those who had never crossed their path.

"No one is innocent," Sterling said, his face completely expressionless, as the body was dumped in the alleyway.

Phil just wanted to lie down for a while, give his body a chance to sort itself out. He kneaded at the bridge of his nose, until his phone rang. He maintained a fantasy of cecile calling to tell him that she was rescuing him from all this for a about 1.2 seconds, before actually answering.

A few minutes later, he poked Sterling in the shoulder.

"That was our FBI source."

"They're looking for us?"

Phil nodded.

"It's about time," Sterling looked up at him. "We can begin on Sunday."

"Begin with what?"

"The FBI has now become a possible threat. It's time to deter them from continuing their investigation."

Phil's sense of dread deepened, if that was even possible. He had a feeling that when Sterling said 'deter', he didn't mean paying them off.

"How far are we going to take this, Ster?"

"Make sure the men know not to kill any agents yet. We want a natural progression, so that it mirrors the rest of the plan."

"It'd be easier to mirror the plan if I knew what the plan was."

"As I have said before, don't worry about it."

Phil could see he was still managing to lose this argument. And, depending on the time of day, it placed him somewhere between anger and worry. The stress was wearing on him. But he'd follow Sterling to the ends of the earth. Or, at least, that's what he'd always done before. He looked at his brother, and knew the game had changed.


	14. Charlie and Rachel

**Author's Note: New chapter! Hurrah! I'd like to thank notsing, whose review a couple chapters back helped me figure out the justice system in this situation. All reviews much appreciated, and any recommendations for other fanfics about the Eppes family's future, as I said before, are also great!**

I'd be lying if I said that night wasn't one of the worst in my life up to that point.

Dad and Don talked to my arresting officer while I collected my purse and coat. I heard snip-its of their conversation, and felt something between burning anger and choking sadness rise up in my throat.

"We're not going to press any formal charges," the officer explained. "But I am going to recommend several hours of community service. Any other discipline I'm sure you can dish out yourselves."

If may have been a joke, but neither of my relatives laughed.

The community service I could deal with, I supposed. But whatever Dad had in mind was far more worrying. Who knows what he and mom would think up once we were home.

I followed, a pace behind, out into the sepia tinted parking lot. The sky was starless. Don's inky black car was barely visible in the shadow of the building, the only indication of it's existence the fact that there was no other color in the space that it occupied.

"Are you alright?" Dad asked, before I'd climbed into the backseat.

I thought about it for a moment, contemplating sarcasm, which I believed always to be the best way to deal with things. But I was far too exhausted to think of something witty. "Fine," I said. "Dad, I thought-"

He closed his eyes, letting out a low breath. "Don't. I honestly cannot believe that you thought about anything whatsoever."

My lower lip trembled. I didn't say any more.

The drive home was silent. Against my will, I began to drift off into something resembling sleep, though my brow remained furrowed. Streetlights passed on the other side of my eyelids, and occasionally we'd pass a club that still had music pouring out of it, but I was oblivious to all of it. When I finally faded back into consciousness, I could hear dad and Don's low voices coming from the front seat. I kept my eyes closed, hoping to catch a hint about my fate, but they weren't talking about me. I wasn't sure whether that was good for me or not.

"...I think Megan's right. This is going to get a whole lot worse before we make a breakthrough."

"So you're just resigned to that?" That was Dad's voice, without a doubt, full of indignation.

"No, Charlie, of course not. But I do have some idea how these kind of escalating things work. And I also know the Martele brothers. Or at least I thought I did."

"I'm still looking into some kind of connection between the grave robbing and the car bombing. There's just a lot going on right now."

Someone's cell phone rang. Not mine. I stayed perfectly still.

"Don Eppes."

I could hear murmurs on the other end of the line, but could not distinguish words or a particular inflection.

"Alright. I'll be over there as soon as possible," he hung up, and looked to dad. "There's a body off Figueroa. I'll drop you at home."

I wasn't sure, but I thought Dad glanced back at me briefly before responding. "Okay."

They said nothing more after that, so I eventually roused from apparent slumber, just as we pulled up to the curb of our house. I grabbed my things and slipped out of the backseat.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow," Don said to Dad, then looked to me with an expression somewhere between pity and exasperation. I'm fairly sure all that I could convey back was fear.

Don drove off. Dad turned to me before heading inside, making eye contact for half a second, and my self esteem dropped ten points. I followed him into the front room, trying to steel myself against the combined wrath of Charlie and Amita Eppes.

m m m

As I said before, it ended up as a pretty shitty night.

I lost track of time when mom started yelling. Dad was quieter about it, but they were clearly not backing down. Long story short mom shouted, dad's eyes were cold, and I ended up crying. Which is when they turned to the whole "we thought you were better than this" and "we can't trust you anymore" ploys. I don't even remember all that was said. It all just blurs in my mind.

"This can't happen, Rachel. You're burning your future at the stake and you're not even an adult yet," Mom said, her dark eyes almost frantic, pleading but hard. She brushed her short hair out of her face, keeping her gaze on my seat on one of the couches.

"This is not a path you want to go down," Dad said darkly. "There is no happy ending to this. I don't care if this is a one time thing, if you say it'll never happen again. I can't trust you word, so we're going to personally make sure it never happens again."

And that was one of the calmer moments in the discussion.

By one in the morning I'd been allowed to fall into bed, still fully clothed, face red and puffy and still wet with fresh tears. I checked my phone to find Vera had called me seven times and Jayne thrice. I was in the process of checking messages when it rang again.

"Rachel's not here, man," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

"What the hell happened to you?" Jayne was half screaming on the other end. I'd had quite enough screaming for one lifetime. "Vera and I have been losing our shit for the last five hours trying to find you."

I was sobbing when I spoke again. I told her what happened. "They're not going to let me play soccer, Jayne. Monday's game and that's it. I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do now."

"They're letting go of a possible sports scholarship?"

I wanted to tell her to focus, but I kept blubbering instead. "I don't know how to do what they want me to do. I can't be a genius. I can't be all sweet and nice. And now I can't play soccer. It's all such bullshit. No fucking shit I'm screwing up my future. I have no fucking options."

The rest of the conversation was my sniveling and Jayne making calming noises at me over the phone. And then her telling me to go to sleep. I couldn't have agreed more, diving under the covers without a second thought. I didn't leave bed until ten the next morning, when Mom woke me to tell me I'd be spending Saturday in the backyard with a rake.

m m m

"We're horrible parents."

"No, we're alright parents in a hard situation," Charlie rubbed at a familiar spot on the bridge of his nose. Amita paced around the bedroom as he quietly tied his shoes, in preparation for his morning trip to the new crime scene.

"We have no idea what we're doing."

"Not a clue. I'm making it up as I go along."

"Do you think we're doing the right thing?"

"I think we're managing. I love Rachel more than anything. Whatever we do we do for her, even if she can't realize it," he stood up to face her. "Or maybe that's just what parents always say. And there are a lot of screwed up kids out there. Eh, I think it'll be okay. In the end, at least. Probably."

"When'd you figure all this out?" she asked, almost smiling.

He slipped an arm around her waist, so that their faces were inches apart. "You know me," he whispered. "Always thinking."


	15. Don and Justine

**Author's Note: Sorry for the wait. Been a busy week while I quietly sit denying that it's a busy week and therefore making it a busier week. But, here it is. Now I have to go lie down.**

Don's eyes scanned the alleyway before stepping into the shadow.

Julio and Megan were knelt beside the body, conversing quietly and gesturing at points of interest on the corpse.

Don leaned over them, looking at the pale white face, smeared with blood. Already fading bruises covered her neck. Her clothes were torn and stained.

"We have an ID?"

"She had her wallet on her," Megan said solemnly, handing the red leather billfold up to him. "Justine Lake Tedesco. Wife to Lester Tedesco. He reported her missing last night, and we have him in custody. A nurse working the night shift found Justine around four. We have her in custody, also."

Don stared at the smiling driver's license picture. He felt sick as the resemblance became obvious.

"This is Terry Lake's sister," he said in a pained voice, and then muttered, "Goddamn."

David appeared by his side, looking over his shoulder. "Christ. It is."

Don bent down to examine the asphalt. "They did this."

Megan nodded gravely. Charlie climbed out the car, head craned to see the street sign a block down. He quickly pulled out his phone, found the navigator, grabbing notes out of his back pocket.

"Huh," he muttered, eyes focused, zooming back and forth between his scribbled handwriting and the street map of Los Angeles.

"What is it, Charlie?"

"That can't be a coincidence," he murmured, passing the phone to Don. "Each crime is equally spaced, a set number of streets apart."

"So, it's creating a line?"

"Yeah, and we can use it to predict where the next crime will be. Except, well, we just don't know _what_ the next crime will be."

"At least it's a start. Any idea of their current base of operations?"

"I'm still looking at the data. Previous aliases, directions they left from crime scenes. But honestly any connections would likely be coincidence, given the lack of information."

"Well, keep at it, as usual."

"Of course."

"I'm gonna head back to the office. Talk to the husband and call Terry later on," Don declared, already heading for the car.

"You're going to tell Terry Lake her sister's dead?" Charlie asked to his back.

"Better a familiar voice."

"I suppose. Did she get back with her ex husband?"

"Last I heard."

Charlie smirked, but Don missed it, as he was already driving away.

m m m

The talk with Lester Tedesco was about as painful as Don expected it to be. He had thought for some time that this job was for those who had a certain sadistic aspect to their psyche—not overpowering, but a dismissal of personal pain to focus on another's in situations such as this. He sure as hell didn't take pleasure in it, but it didn't upset him enough to stop doing it, either.

It was less of a conversation and more of a few sentences, surrounded on both sides by a tension filled silence. Don explained to him that they had suspects, already implicated with other crimes, that they were currently pursuing with their whole effort. Lester just nodded at this, a strangely tall man with slick dark hair, his eyes unfocused as he stared at a spot just in front of Don's hands on the metal table. He held an untouched cup of coffee.

"Once again, terribly sorry for your loss," Don's voice was grave, quiet and slow. A few minutes later he left for his desk, promising to Lester that another agent would be in soon to talk about when her body, still currently evidence, would be released for burial. It was only when Don left the room that he saw tears begin to drip down the other man's face. He thought Lester had been impressively stoic through the meeting. Don couldn't think what he would've done in his place, but he doubted that his actions would be quite as understated.

He shut the door to his office and pulled out his phone. Terry's number was still in there, at first out of some half baked fantasy of her returning to LA, and then to invite her to his wedding. That was nineteen years ago. It continually surprised him how much time had passed.

He realized once it was ringing that it was highly unlikely that she still had the same number.

His suspicions were correct in that the phone was answered with an automated message telling him that it was no longer in use. Being resourceful, he used his squad leader status to look up Terry's personnel file, which included her new phone number, D.C. area code and all.

By most standards, that little escapade would have been a little creepy. He passed it off as a dire situation. There was a current ID badge photo in the file, which he tried not to stare at for longer than was necessary.

He quickly tapped in the new digits and felt his chest tightening as the phone rang.

"Hello?" a male voice answered.

"Hello, sir, my name is Don Eppes from the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Is this the residence of Terry Lake?"

"Yes, what is this about?"

"Is she available? I have some bad news."

"Mom, the FBI wants you," the voice called, a hand muffling the receiver ineffectually.

There was the sound of footsteps, and then a familiar, "Terry Lake."

"Terry, it's Don. Don Eppes."

"Oh, hi, Don. How are you? Everything alright?"

He wished he could just talk to her first. Just ask how she was doing. Swap stories before he had to shatter a portion of her family. But this was not news you could casually add into the ass end of a conversation. _Oh, by the way, your sister is dead. Talk to you later._

"Terry, I'm sorry I have to tell you this over the phone."

Silence. As though steeling herself against his next words. "What is it?"

"Justine's dead."

All that could be heard was the gentle hum of the office outside his office walls. When she spoke again, her voice was unsteady. "How?"

"She was raped and murdered. Some time last night. We have suspects. Charlie and the team are working on it."

"I'm coming out there."

"You're sure?"

"Lester'll need someone there. I always felt bad about leaving them in LA by themselves, after telling them to come out and be with me. And I can help with the investigation."

Don wasn't sure about the investigation part. There was no way to remain objective at this point. But he didn't say a word.

"Okay."

"I'll get the next flight."

"I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean much."

"I'll see you soon."

"Yep."

She hung up. He didn't know what he expected out of that conversation, but it sure as hell didn't involve seeing Terry Lake again so soon. He raised a curious eyebrow.


	16. Charlie and the Minions

**Author's Note: Okay, so sorry this took so long to get up. January and February just make me tired. And there's that whole TV thing. Damn. So many distractions, so little time. Anyways, thanks for all the lovely reviews!**

Charlie stared intently at the spread of papers, laid before him on the dining room table. He chewed on his thumbnail, looking for some kind of direction, motive in the crimes. He had found in this case that he was using less of his math abilities and more of his pattern seeking and observing skills, in an attempt to predict the unpredictable Sterling Martele.

After a while he broke away from his thoughts, just as Amita's light but fast tread came flying down the stairs.

"Have you seen my keys?"

"Kitchen counter," he replied. "Where're you going?"

"Work."

"It's Sunday."

"Yes, but I have to turn in a new course plan for Millie and I figured it would be a good time to get Rachel to straighten up my office."

"You're good at this punishing thing," he met her on the threshold of the kitchen, a small smile on his lips.

She smiled ruefully. "Once I get in the groove, ideas just keep coming to me."

He leaned forward and kissed her, and she deepened it, until they were pressed against the wall. After a few long moments, she broke away.

"Hold that thought. I'll drop off Rachel and come back."

"Hurry." He watched her leave, heard her drag Rachel across the front yard, and then start the car. He looked around the empty, quiet house, indecision striking him. Finally, he grabbed his earphones and a stack of papers to grade, settling into a chair in the front room.

He didn't hear the car pull up.

The next thing he knew, he was lunging to the floor, out of survival instinct more than anything else. Hands over his head, he scrambled on his stomach into the dining room and behind a protective wall, until the rain of bullets and broken glass stopped.

He heard a car speed away.

It's all over in a few seconds. His heart was beating so fast it hurt. He could barely breathe. He checked himself first, and finding with some relief that he was unbloodied and unharmed. He peeked back into the living room, to see it a mess of broken glass from a front window having shattered. A porcelain lamp lay in on the carpet.

With shaking hands, he took the cellphone from his back pocket and and dialed the familiar number. He didn't get back to his feet until the door flew open, and only then he slid up the wall, craning around the doorframe.

Don stepped fearlessly across the broken glass, hand tensed over the gun on his hip. "Charlie, you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You're sure?" Don put a hand on his brother's head, pulling it sideways and back so he could see Charlie's neck and chest. Convinced, he turned to the front room, taking in the destruction. He went to the window, peered out onto the now empty street. "Three guesses who's responsible for this."

Charlie said nothing, and Don pulled out his cell phone. David and Julio arrived minutes later, and he briefed them on the situation.

David looked to Charlie. "How are you?"

Charlie shrugged, arms crossed but tensed over his chest. Though it wasn't obvious, most of what he was feeling was just relief. Relief that he'd been alone in the house when this all happened. That thought may have been comforting, but it lead to more worry, as he wondered silently, _what the hell am I going to tell Amita?_

What had once been a crippling fear of dying by gunfire had quieted somewhat in the years passed, as the instances continued to occur in his line of work for the FBI. Though it still shook him when it happened, it was far less debilitating than it had been when he was a younger man. But as Charlie looked out at the wrecked room, he couldn't help but feel that familiar cold tinge shoot down his spine.


End file.
